Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
It’s probably nothing, but this is the first thing that’s triggered a memory. I walk the side of the truck, dragging my fingertips over the side panels, feeling for irregularities, dents or paint remains. The way I was going when I got hit, there should be something along the front left. I crouch, examining the driver’s side grill.
“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” The harsh yell has me jumping back, hand reaching for my belt. A floodlight comes on from the garage, bathing me in light and revealing a stocky man that comes charging out of the house, glowering at me. “Get the fuck away from my truck.” He pauses. “Ruin?”
That name hits me like a ton of bricks and I take a closer look. “Grinder? I figured you were worm food by now.”
“I could say the same thing about you, except no. You’re a fucking traitor, aren’t you? Didn’t have the guts to stick it out.” He spits.
“Not my fault you didn’t have the brains to know when to jump ship.” Last time I saw Grinder, we were in the same club, riding dirty and raising hell. And we fucking looked the part. What the fuck is he doing out here in suburbia? “Are those dad jeans?”
“Fuck off, asshole,” he growls. “I’m not as easily bought as you.”
Acid builds in my veins, itching under the skin, but there’s no point in defending myself, not to him. “Easy to say when no one’s buying. Is this your life now? Bought a truck to pretend to be a farmer while you commute to work? You were a fucking enforcer. I don't fucking believe you gave it all up for a mortgage and weekend grill parties.” I rest my arm on his truck. “What are you doing here?”
“Take your fucking hands off my ride, or it's the last fucking thing you'll ever do.” He seethes as he comes closer, pulling up the sleeves on his hoodie and revealing the cheap home done ink all over his forearms. “This neighborhood's cheap, convenient, and up until just now, was free of reminders of my damn past. I live here, so if you didn’t know I was here, then I think you’re the one who needs to tell me why you’re standing in my driveway.”
“Or what? Gonna gun me down in front of your own house?” He doesn't look like he's packing, and even if he is, I'm pretty fucking sure that I'm faster. But I don't think he will. Not here where it would draw the wrong sort of attention. He might break my face, though.
He fucking wants to, I can see the frustration written bold all over him. “Jesus Christ, Ruin. I’m out. I told you. I don't even really blame you for leaving the Pit Vipers when you did. Crow was taking shit too far. He needed to be dealt with, but the Screaming Eagles? Were you there when they fucking slaughtered us? How did that make you feel? Did killing the people you used to ride with make you feel anything?” He points back at the street. “Get the fuck out, and if I see you again, I won’t be as friendly.”
“I’ll leave when I’m ready.” Pushing off, I smack my palm against the hood of the truck a couple times. “Someone’s been causing trouble around here. We heard about it, and when I came through the other day, they took a shot at me.”
His expression is blank. Too blank. “Not my problem, and not yours either. This isn’t Eagles territory. Maybe you should have stayed in South Side with the rest of the trash.”
“Then how would we have had this heartwarming reunion? I didn’t know you lived here, but it’s a real fucking coincidence that I thought I recognized this truck, and then who comes out of the house but my old buddy Grinder.”
“Oh fuck off. What the hell would I have to gain from pissing off the Screaming Eagles? You thinking I'm driving around, hunting for you assholes, hoping that one of them one day is going to ride through my fucking neighborhood? I have better shit to do with my time. That part of my life is in the past.” He takes a couple menacing steps closer. “I'm not gonna spend my evening getting interrogated by a moron like you. Get the hell outta here before I call the cops.”
I actually stop and blink at that. “The cops? You'd fucking call the cops? You? Don't they still have warrants out on your ugly ass?”
“You always had a smart mouth, didn’t you? Guess what? Nobody gives a shit how many fucking generations your family rode with the Vipers anymore. I can kick your ass and nobody’s going to say shit.” Grinder tightens his hands into meaty fists.
I can make fun of the fucker all I want, but he knows how to fight. Used to be his job to put down troublemakers, whether it was by pounding the shit outta them or putting a bullet through their skull. Flinching would give him what he wants, so I stay still, but light on my feet in case I need to dodge. “What happened to calling the cops?”